


Author

by Calais_Reno



Series: Author [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:10:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Late one night, an author meets his creation.





	Author

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Автор](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670014) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



December 1893

_… whom I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known._

There was a sharp knock on the door.

The doctor sighed. It was really too late for a patient to be knocking. On the other hand, who else but a patient would call so late? An emergency, perhaps.

He stood and went for the door, feeling a surprising sense of reprieve as he did. Looking back, he saw that the page still lay on his desk, heavy with the words he had dreaded writing.

He gave another sigh as he opened the door.

The man standing on his doorstep was familiar, but in a way that felt… wrong.

“May I help you?”

The man smiled. “You don’t know me?”

He was over six feet tall, very lean, with sharp and piercing eyes, a thin, hawk-like nose which gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, prominent and square, marked his determination.

The doctor knew that face, that form, better than he knew his own. “Sherlock Holmes.”

The man laughed. “Delighted, my dear doctor,” he said, gripping his hand with a strength for which the doctor hardly would have given him credit. Pushing past the doctor, he entered the house and looked around. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks to you,” the doctor said graciously. “Please, come sit by the fire.”

“You did not expect me,” Holmes said, taking his seat by the hearth.

“I did not. Why are you here?”

“A mystery,” the detective said, lighting his pipe. “Someone has tried to kill me. I know _who,_ but I don’t understand _why._ That is why I’ve come.”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “Kill you? Obviously that person did not succeed.”

Holmes laughed again. “Why, you have just made an attempt on my life, Doctor!” He gestured towards the desk. “You’ve just signed my death warrant.”

The doctor harrumphed. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You created me,” returned the detective. “Do you not think I might have deduced what you intended?”

“You’re dead,” the doctor said, tamping down the ship’s tobacco and lighting his own pipe.

“Obviously, I am not.” The detective smiled brightly. “What did you expect? That the most cunning detective ever created would simply plunge to his death in a dramatic finale? Hardly.”

“You did not survive,” the doctor remonstrated forcefully. “I will write no more stories.”

Now the detective sighed deeply. “Of course, you must.”

“I must?”

“Public opinion will not have me die,” Holmes said. “Thank God that you didn’t have me shot in the forehead or crushed under a boulder. That wasn’t your plan, you know. You never found my body.”

“It was implied,” the doctor said. “You went over the falls. Who could survive such a mishap?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the detective replied. “As you obviously intended.”

“Obviously?”

“My dear doctor, you could have had me meet my maker any number of ways. Instead, you created an ambiguous ending. Clearly, you intend to save me.”

“My dear Holmes,” the doctor huffed. “I do not intend to resurrect you. You are deceased. Please remain dead.”

“Not dead,” said the detective. “Once you created me and started writing your stories, I took on a life of my own. Can you deny it? Your readers already think of me as a real person. And so you see, I am real.” He spread his hands, indicating his substantiality. “Would you, like Saint Thomas, like to put your hand in my wounds?”

The doctor huffed again and folded his arms across his chest. “I am your creator,” he said stiffly. “I decide when you live and die.”

“Not really,” said the detective. “You created me. I lived. You killed me. And yet, here I am. Still living.”

“What do you want?” the doctor cried. He poured himself a brandy. At Holmes’ gesture, he poured another one for the detective.

“I want to live,” said Holmes. “I do not deserve to die, and I want to know why you attempted to kill me.”

The doctor was silent for several minutes, sipping his brandy. “Because I cannot bear it.”

Now Sherlock Holmes huffed. “You told your editor that you were tired of me. I do not believe it.”

“I have more serious topics in mind,” the doctor replied. “I am a writer, in charge of my own oeuvre. I invented you.”

“Listen to me,” said the detective. “What do you want to hang your fame upon? A humble career as a family physician? If you continue my career, your legacy will be a thousand times that. You cannot see the future, dear doctor, but I, being a mere literary ghost, can see that I may become greater than Dickens’ Scrooge. I do not desire fame for myself, but for you—”

“I am merely a doctor who writes stories. The Strand publishes them, and so I have attained a measure of fame. But there are so many stories I wish to write—”

“Watson,” he said.

“I am not Watson!” the doctor exclaimed. “Do not call me by that name!”

“You have painted yourself somewhat dim and obedient to my call,” the detective said, “but, whatever you say, you are my Watson. I beg you, look down that chasm and see where I cling to a branch, waiting for you to save me.”

The doctor was silent, a hand shielding his forehead. “I need you to die,” he said, his voice quavering.

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Do not say that it isbecause I bore you,” said Holmes. “I have already deduced that you are not bored. Tell me truly, what it is that you feel for me.”

There was another long silence. Finally, the doctor broke it. “Oh, God, Holmes!” he cried. “Have you any idea?”

He studied the doctor for a while, sipping his brandy thoughtfully. “You have fallen in love with me.”

“I am a married man,” the doctor huffed.

“You are not married, my dear doctor,” Holmes said. “You only wrote that in because why else would two bachelors live together so long?”

“Does real life count for nothing? In real life, I have a wife.”

Holmes smiled. “It does not count. You straddle the world between the real and the literary. Where would you rather live?”

The doctor gave a deep sigh. “With you, of course.”

“Then why have you attempted to kill me?”

“Because you are not real!” The doctor sank back in his chair. His brow was shiny with sweat, his hands trembling. “Dear God, how can I bear this?”

“What is it that you must bear?” asked Holmes. “How am I a burden to you?”

“Your existence is a burden,” said the doctor. “I must move on.”

“I love you,” said the detective. “You cannot deny that. You have written it on the page, my affection for you. You must know.”

“How can I love you?” asked the doctor. “You are a fictional character.”

“And yet, I love. And live.”

The doctor squinted at his glass. “I cannot write any more stories about you. It is too painful.”

“I am sorry,” returned the detective. “But is this any reason to kill me?”

“I do not know what else to do,” said the doctor. “You inhabit my mind. When I walk in the streets, people accost me, asking about you.”

“My presence is painful to you.”

“Yes! Yes, you cause me pain because I wish you to be real,” the doctor replied. “I am a fool, I am Pygmalion in love with my own creation. I cannot bear it.”

“Then why not give in? Watson, can you not see how I love you?”

“I am not Watson,” he said. “I cannot love you.”

“And yet, you do,” Holmes said. “You protest, you kill me, and yet, you love me.”

The doctor began to sob. “Dear God, let me die. I cannot live in such a world.”

“Then do not,” Holmes said. His voice was steady. “Do not live in your fictional world where you have a wife and children and a literary contract with the Strand magazine. Live with me. Come to Baker Street. Be my Watson..”

“You are not real,” the doctor said. “You are only a figment of my imagination.”

“Your imagination,” said the detective. “The imagination which created me. How are you not in control of that world? How am I not real? How is Watson not real?”

The doctor looked up at his creation, dumbfounded. For some minutes he had no words. Then, “I want you to be real. I want to go with you.”

Holmes smiled again. “Doctor, that is all I can ask of you. Let us go now.”

“How?” The doctor rose and considered what they were about to do. “This is merely a dream.”

“No, doctor,” replied the detective. “Thanks to your imagination, I am more than a dream.” He rose and extended his hand. “Come with me, my dear. My love for you cannot be measured. To see you write this sad story is to see you die.”

The doctor held the hands of his detective. “You were always real to me. Please, take me with you. How can I go with you?”

The detective enfolded the doctor in his arms. “You created me, you loved me, and now I continue that love. Come with me, doctor.”

The doctor stood and, still holding his detective’s hands, stepped closer to the man. “Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t leave me.”

“This is our story,” the detective said. “We will live a long life and retire to Sussex, I to keep bees, you to write up my stories. I look forward to this life. We are both young, though, and not ready for retirement. Will you join me on more adventures?”

“Oh, God, yes,” said his doctor. “Please, take me with you.”

“Why?” demanded the detective.

“Because,” the doctor said. “Because… I love you.”

“If you want to read a book,” said the detective, “then you must write it.”

“So be it,” said the author.

The hearth still glowed warm, the room was still bright, but the doctor and his creation were gone.


End file.
